Monthly Archives: September 2008

I’ve a fucking cold, it came on in an hour, one minute I’m supping ales with Harry in my local the next I’m aware that from the neck up my head has been replaced by a huge moist testicle with all nail files in it.

Where the hell did this come from? I’ve not been in contact with the ill. Having had a cold recently I thought I’d be immune for at least 6 months. Of course this means I’m sneezing with a slipped disc, these two things aren’t compatible, a bit like having poo in ones mouth.

Short one today, having a ridiculous morning at work. I’d love to go into detail but am unable for an assortment of work-related reasons.

My trusty walking stick received more compliments than my (soon-to-be and not too bad now, actually) moustache. The ‘oooh, is it adjustable?’ and ‘blimey! It collapses!’ comments along with how it suited me and wotnot… well I may as well shave off my bloody face furniture and walk about without my trouser and a little bell attached to the end of my member. I may as well do that. Yes.

I had a splendid weekend, Friday night IC her flatmate and I went to a club in Shoreditch. Despite being with cane I was able to shake my botty a little to some surprisingly enjoyable tunes. I had a spot of luck with a whisky and ginger where the rather incompetent barmaid reversed the measures, a lovely fight broke out at one point, a rude lady banged on the cubicle door when I was trying to have a pee but a jolly good night was had by all, despite another punch up on the way to the bus and another on it between two huge lesbians. I wasn’t involved in any though I suspect the sheer magnificence of the tash was causing East London some anxiety.

On Saturday IC nipped off with some pals and Swineshead and his missus escorted me to a Vietnamese restaurant for lunch. Both were witness to me enjoying a sensational beef noodle soup and we happily toddled off in the warm sunshine to London Fields with coffee to sit and chat about movies and shit. My four-legged taxi dropped me back at IC’s then she and I went and sat in a park to enjoy the unexpectedly clement autumn afternoon.

Evening struck, off out again for a friend’s dinner at another Vietnamese eatery. There were 12 of us, I knew two thirds of them and the rest became familiar as the evening wore on. The food was marvellous though rather cold by the time it came to eat due to starters and main courses arriving at random and my refusal to tuck in until IC was served. We ate and drunk well, the woefully small bill was an added bonus and, sated, we went back to Tomasina’s gaff to soothe off Saturday night with a nightcap.

Sunday began very slowly, I had antipasti for breakfast and we took off into what was another perfect fucking day. Our plan, to go into central London and take in exhibition before returning to Tooting was taken out and shot when, serendipity! We bumped into Swineshead and his missus taking coffee near Columbia Road. We hung about discussing our good fortune before moving through the flower market, passing the chance to undertake the intended trip to Oxford Street and choose to eat pannini in Hoxton instead. We then walked back to London Fields to soak up what was left of the day (all this walking was proving itself to be very beneficial to my spine, I’m still with cane and things aren’t 100% by any means but I can see a light in the distance) and talk on a bench as the good people of Hackney buzzed cheerfully about us.

On account of the saving made the previous evening IC kindly offered to buy me dinner, after a quick scrub up back at the flat we set off for the last time that weekend. We had dinner by candlelight in a little pizza place that I’ve harped on about before, IC’s order was a tad disappointing but mine was as delicious as ever. A most excellent way of rounding off what was a notable weekend. For me at least, if you made it this far you’re probably more bored than David Cameron’s fucking tie.

I’m sure I’ve posted this before, one of the tunes from Friday. I bloody love it. I nearly bolted when it came on.

Short one day. This is more for your sakes than mine as you’ll merely be subject to my going on about how it took me over twenty fucking minutes to put my boots on this morning.

I got into work late for a combination of the above and my decision to take painkillers before I got out of my pit. Fortunately sleeping isn’t too much of a problem though I have to be in the right position –on my side with a cushion between my knees- it’s just when I wake moving is awkward to say the least. The worst is the subsequent sitting-up part, I can feel my back compress and shift over to the left and lock tight. This is gasping-agony time, you simply can’t move and any attempt to do so results in an unholy pain that induces a whiteout and at worse a full-on faint. I think I’ve already mentioned that an oncoming sneeze is more frightening than waking up to find you’re being wanked off by the ghost of William Bramble.

I’m looking forward to the weekend immensely but mildly concerned how my spine will behave, especially with regard to travelling around. I’ve already travelled on the tube with a screwed back but have yet to try the bus. I should be okay but I’m not sure whether I’m best stood up screaming or sat down with my head craned forward shouting expletives every time the pus goes over a pebble.

I’ve taken my cue from UrbanWoo (link right) and put up a clip of ‘A bit of Fry and Laurie’. Please do have nice weekends, and be grateful your spine isn’t made of pumice and held together with bogies.

My mum may have noticed that there wasn’t a P yesterday. Basically, after my post on Tuesday, I took the first available appointment with a local Doctor and following the briefest of consultations was ordered to take an x-ray at my earliest convenience, hence my lack of post.

I’ve worked out that to date having my spine manipulated in various fashions, including two sessions of acupuncture (which briefly worked I hasten to add), has cost me in excess of a grand. Why on earth I didn’t take the NHS route from the off is more baffling to me than the so-called ‘war on terror’. I learnt quickly that I could have free physio should the x-ray results prove what already know, that my back is made of chalk. I’ll have conclusive evidence in a few weeks, apparently.

So there I was at 9am shuffling through the corridors of St. Georges in Tooting dodging wheelchairs, trolleys and drug addicts to reach the x-ray department. I waited for 5 mins by reception before being ushered into the changing area where I was installed in one of those awful gowns that lets your bum hang out the back. The radiologist, who looked like he was 15, positioned me on the viewing table and did his business. In 20 minutes I was out and preparing myself to climb aboard my black bitch which would whisk me to the office for a day of moaning and occasional yelps as my fucking spine played hide and seek with my discs.

My boss gave me one of those kneeling-seat devices on which I’m perched as I type this. It’s certainly better for the back than a chair but has two major disadvantages, the first is that it’s only a fraction less painful than having twisted back as all my weight is resting on my knees/shins and, secondly, as I’m floating over my colleagues like some sort of disabled angel of death, they are privy to my perpetually contorted visage as jolts of electronic-agony leap from my arse to my neck every time I so much as exhale. It’s most fucking irksome I can tell you not to mention a tad humiliating.

I was preparing myself to spend the evening wriggling alone in front of The Wire, I’d mentally planned the lowest impact supper (stuff in the fridge which would be served cold) and I can’t say I was feeling terribly cheery. At the eleventh hour Frank suggested a pint, I’d already considered going for a walk as the stick is helping to cool my boots, so to learn there would be a pint waiting at the end was most invigorating.

But my evening took a turn for the splendid, when, out of the blue, IC walked up my stairs with flowers and ingredients for dinner. I hobbled off to the pub while she showered and made supper and by the time I returned a plate of fresh scallops, smoked haddock and rocket was shoved under my nose with a bottle of Shiraz breathing happily at reach.

I am in a most foul temperament. My back has gone right fucked, I’m using my fucking walking stick again and I’m in bloody agony in any given position -save lying down on my side in a half foetal position with a pillow between my knees and another stuffed into the small of my fucking useless back. This isn’t a good position for the office. The only alternative is to gently adopt a position that most effectively bypasses the contentious area so I’m bolt upright in my chair like a Victorian Civil Servant wincing everytime I so much as blink.

I suspected it was going to do this, the warning signs have been in evidence since last week but instead of taking some extra time to do the strengthening exercises… I didn’t. I spurned the exercises like they were Argos receipts for Tupperware, I laughed in their goddamnn faces with my eyes glowing with fucking hate, me, I did… but now I pay.

The upshot is time consuming, costly and of course, the other thing, er, oh yes, more painful than having a roasted angle grinder dropped onto your genitals from the top of K2. No more gentle-massaging osteopath for me, it’s chiropractor time, the fucking back cracker, the clicker, the snapper, the angel of death.

Last night, after a couple of pints with Frank up the road, I returned home. Dimly aware that the spot of alcohol I’d consumed was having little effect on my spine, I made some supper and watched some of Tribe (I don’t know why I bother. Every week it’s the same; Bruce Parry meets some indigenous people, gets fucked out of his skull and vomits copiously. Surely it’s cheaper to just send the cunt to Blackpool on Friday night?) but I was partially saved by The Wire, I say ‘partially’ because the dawning realisation that I couldn’t sit with honking was pissing me off.

I’ve made an appointment to see the doctor this afternoon. Only my moustache can save me now.

Homemade fishcakes take a fucking age to prepare, about an hour and half if you’re making fresh breadcrumbs like what I dun. The result of my labour was sensational; they were served with asparagus and a parsley sauce with enough garlic to fell Edith Piaf. After dinner IC and I settled down to Wolf Creek and polished off the rest of the Moet that my boss had given me for being a bloody good bloke. It was Friday and I was in excellent cheer.

I awoke on Saturday with my spine wrapped round a bedspring. I cursed myself for not being a little more pedantic with the exercises my osteopath had suggested I undertake on a daily basis. It’s one thing to do them when ones back feels like it’s made of broken beer bottles and another when it’s acting as it should (i.e., not throwing you on the ground when you gently cough.) I managed to get vertical after some effort and even performed a cooking task that resulted in two huge kippers for lunch. After lunch had settled, and following a trog, I threw myself on the deck and worked on my spine, after 30 mins it began to perform, basic movement was resumed albeit with a certain amount of spontaneous discomfort/fucking screaming agony.

It was glorious day, the summer we never really had suddenly happened, with cruel irony, on the last day of summer. At 4 o clock IC and I jumped on the black bitch, in my case I sort of climbed on it moaning softly, and we headed off for deepest darkest Surrey -the proper countryside stuff with all just fields and winding narrow lanes. The ride there was soporific despite the rapid pace, the roads that slice their way out of London are some of the most bike-friendly in South East England, the clement weather icing the bike-themed cake.

We arrived at James’ gaff at 5. His wife and kids, one 4 and one brand-new, played with us in the garden as we nattered and cracked into the first of the evenings beers. After the kids had knackered themselves out they were tucked away and James, IC and I nipped down the lane to the pub which is almost a cliché in its country pubness. We had a few and James bought us some sandwiches to soak up the booze, after a pleasant few hours we headed back up the lane and experienced the velvety pitch black of the countryside on the way home.

In order to not wake the family we spent the rest of the evening in James shed listening to music and drinking wine. By the time we went to bed we were all shattered but not without control of our respective faculties. The following morning the expected howl from the little one didn’t materialise and IC and I slept comfortably until 10. We had a fried breakfast, marvellous, and before we set off took some pics of the kids on the black bitch. After the goodbyes we headed back out into the sunshine and hit the road, before arriving home we popped by to see my old mum who forced cake and tea on us and we passed a happy hour talking about dead people in cars.

Back to the flat for a while and then IC and I went for a walk and did a tiny bit of shopping. The day was fading fast, the light is now gone by 7 for all intents and purposes and the air is taking on that familiar nip of the autumn. We decided to save the evening by going out for a curry at the eatery up the road from my gaff. I’m used to others leading the way when it comes to curry but as IC is less informed about South Indian cuisine than I, yours truly took the ordering bull by the horns. I hit the bloody nail on the head by ordering just the right amount of delicious stuff to share and we left feeling sated but not bloated, a difficult balance had been achieved, equilibrium was restored and the usual humdrum Sunday-evening pisser was wholly negated. Before heading off to bed we watched an old BBC adaptation of Dicken’s The Signal Man, which is 30 minutes of pure shit-flowing terror. Marvellous.

My back is still contorted like Auschwitz-Birkenau barbed wire but on a lighter note I’ve grown a Frank Zappa moustache.

I had a dream last night in which I was a DJ (‘DJ’ such as the Fats Boy Slim as opposed to the late, and much missed, John Peel) and not having had any aspirations to carry on in such a baffling manner, it took me by surprise when I was informed ‘I was on.’ by a young Cherie Lunghi. Despite not having a clue what I was doing I was rather good, actually, it was a positive experience, and take it from me, a piece of piss.

My intention to have a clean night in front of the box was somewhat compromised, not to the point of silliness I hasten to add. I had a couple of hastily arranged pints with Frank at the local, it was a lovely day yesterday and it seemed a shame to waste the clement, albeit crepuscular, evening (it’s dark by 7.30 already) but fulfilled my Wire duties from 9pm to midnight following a luxury bath (I was completely naked!).

My regular reader will be pleased to know that I’ve fully recovered from ‘Curry Wednesday,’ I’m back on 3’s and 4’s and feeling prepared for what the weekend has to offer. I’ve decided to avoid the disgusting Friday List this week, it’ll make the occasional appearance but, with regard to an earlier mention of Mr. Peel, here is a typically eccentric offing from The Fall.